


A little town called...

by PsychoMIME



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gritty, Honor, Knights - Freeform, Knightsbridge, Original Character(s), Sacrifice, Science Fiction & Fantasy, warriors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:37:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoMIME/pseuds/PsychoMIME
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of a small group of knights whose actions named a town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A little town called...

You want know how our town came to bear its name?  
I’ll tell you.

I was still a young lad, no higher than my father’s knee when they came; not this man of grey you see before you.  The winter had been particularly harsh and long, and the first rain of spring had not yet come.  Which for a town as close as us to the Desert, meant one thing, it was only a matter of time before the raiders would come and take away what we had left.

They don’t look like much, they numbered less than half a dozen, their clothing patched and worn, their faces covered in wrinkles resembling the roads they had walked.  Dust from the road covered their well cared for piecemeal armour and red and black tabards.  Some carried shields, others swords taller than a man.  They had no wagons with them, everything they owned was on their backs.

The leader pulled the handkerchief keeping the dust from his mouth down and asked if they could fill waterskins from our well.  My father was the innkeep, just as I am today, and offered them room and board for the night.  The warrior smiled and answered that they could not pay.  My father must have seen something in the warrior’s eyes, because he insisted that they stay and that money would not be an issue.

So it came that they stayed the night.  They ate my mother’s stew, drank our ale and told us tales from all across the land.  They laughed and joked, as only friends who had faced danger together could.  As things calmed down they began cleaning their armour and weapons, telling those of us who were still awake the tale of how they had earned each piece. They unrolled their bedrolls and slept in the common room that night, declining the luxury of separate rooms.

They were up when when I snuck out to do my chores just before dawn, helping one another into their armour.  When the rider rode up to warn us of the raiding party on the way, they lined up their backpacks by the side of the tavern  wall.  Weapons were drawn and shields unslung and together they marched to that very bridge you see there today.

Farmers fled into our town and ran past them, their families and meager possessions in tow.  The whoops of raiders a short distance behind.  Resolutely they stepped into formation with shields in front.  What I saw next from my hiding spot in the attic I will never forget.

The raiders smashed into their wall of shields, like a flash flood after the first rains and they held.  Outnumbered ten to one they stood.  An armoured warrior as tall as a horse and wielded a  tree trunk as a club, crushed one’s skull, crumpling the his helm with a powerful overhand blow.  The knight’s brothers stepped up and brought the beast down, before stepping back into formation.  Wave after wave of raiders continued to come and the knight’s numbers dropped one by one, until one remained, blood oozing from the cuts covering his body, still protecting the town and his fallen brothers.

The leader of the raiders stepped up and called him out.  The remaining warrior stepped forward, accepting the challenge.  His hair was matted with dust and sweat and blood.  His blade was dripping with the blood of his enemies.  The leader roared and charged, the knight spun and brought up his blade.  The leader’s head separated from his body and splashed in the ravine below, his headless body stumbling a few more feet.

The remaining brother dropped to one knee, and using his blade to hold him up, he glared at the dregs of the raiders.  They broke and ran back to the desert they call home.  The townsfolk came from their hiding places to congratulate the hero for saving their town. Yet he continued to stare off into the distance.  It was not until they close that they saw that he had died from his wounds, defending our town.

They still lie buried next to road leading to the bridge.  A stone statue of a knight standing vigil over the road and each man’s grave.

And that, my friend, is why our town came to be known as Knightsbridge.


End file.
